Santa Claus

Disclaimer: If you believe in Santa Claus this is probably not the post for you to read.  Hahaha.  And, also, I have decided to restart the series I started earlier before it was abruptly halted because of controversy.  My reason?   I live far enough away from UCLA now to not have to face the consequences of controversial things I say.  Chyea!

When I was a little boy, my parents tried for one Christmas to convince me that Santa Claus is truly real.  They had never really “talked” about him, but because I had heard about him at school, I decided that I would investigate the truth of these alleged claims that all my little third grade friends would tell me.  “Last year, I got EVERYTHING I WANTED FROM SANTA!”  Imagine the joy and excitement on my face at the prospect of there, yes, TRULY being a Santa that EXISTS!  And not only that…then wtf?  Where the hell were all my presents?  I figured that in order to GET the presents you first had to believe, cause one of my third grade friends convinced me that that is the way that it works.  Well, damn then, I believe!  Now give me my freaking Transformers!  My Legos (THE BEST TOYS EVER)!  My G.I. Joes!

I was a greedy little kid, damnit!  There is this hilarious story of me when I was a little kid where I would cry and cry at the parking lot of my apartment complex when I was like 3-4 years old because I wanted to stay there and play.  In order to “persuade” me to come back into my apartment, my parents would literally leave a trail of my toys on the stairway up.  I would, in turn, enticed by the sparkly toys that I had grown to love so dearly, pick up toy by toy while slowly being tricked back into the prison of my home.  You tricky parents you!!!

On a completely random side note, one time when I was a little kid one of my friends at the preschool told me that one of the best things I could do is pee down the slide.  I was a freaking pre schooler, and to me, that sounded like an excellent idea.  So there I was, a young impressionable little boy on top of the slide smiling with the joys and thrills that any little impressionable boy may sport, and out comes my pre-school wanger on the top of the slide, and then a definite steady stream of bright yellow urine coating the slide for any future slide-patrons to thoroughly enjoy.  Unfortunately, my great plan to make the slide that much more enjoyable for the next person to ride it was thwarted by the yard lady who caught me in the act.  Damn those yard ladies.

Anyways, back to the point.  Armed with a new sense of purpose, and the desire to get my newly minted limited edition G.I. Joe, I decided to ask my parents those tough questions about life.  “Mom, Dad, is there really a Santa Claus?”  With a very suspicious uncertainty, my mom with good and pure intent, shyly asserted “Yes.  Santa Claus very real.”

“Then it is true that he comes down the Chimney?”

“Oh yes, Chimney, yes.”

“…but…we don’t have a chimney.”

The sudden realization dawned on me, and I was suddenly very depressed as a third grader to realize that SANTA will not be able to visit my tiny little apartment without a chimney.  Oh shucks.  My mother, realizing her mistake, made some sort of weird excuse about this or that, but the damage had already been done.  Santa wouldn’t be coming to my house that night.  But then, I couldn’t help but think (I was a complicated third grader who thinks too much…and now I am a complicated twenty-five year old who thinks too much…my how time has changed everything) all the pictures I see of Santa are freaking FAT.  How the hell would he fit down a chimney neways?

So then, because Santa wouldn’t be able to visit my apartment, my parents decided that instead of pretending and hiding presents, they would instead just take us to Wal-Mart every year at Christmas and have us pick anything we wanted.  And so died the dream, the hope, the illusion of Santa.  And Wal-Mart happily filled the void.

However, this kind of got me thinking a little bit.  Is it worth pretending and telling your kids that Santa Claus is real?  For those of you guys who know me, you will know that I am a realist.  Those of you who know me superficially neways.  The people who really know me know that I am a realist on the outside but an idealist at heart.  FOR INSTANCE, I know in my heart of hearts that I will never ever win the lottery.  But…secretly…oh man how I wish and hope and pray and beseech God to bless me with the money.  One time, I told my mother that I really believed I was going to win the lottery.  With that, my mom without even flinching replied in turn…”Yea, me too.  And so far it’s been forty years, and I still haven’t won.”

Talk about a dream killer.

But honestly, is the myth of Santa really worth telling your kids about?  You know one of my favorite scenes in the movie Enchanted, is where the father is giving her daughter a “gift”, that is, a book about successful women in the past.  He is convinced that she will love this book, and instead of giving her what she really wants, he arms her with the “realistic” stuff, shrugging aside her daughters hopes for fairy tales and things of the like.  During that part of that ridiculously superfluous movie (which, although I hate on it I have to say was fairly well made), I was applauding cause FINALLY this little child’s impressionable mind would be set free from thinking about such proposterous hopes.  HAH.  There is no princess, suckah.  And no dragons.  And no witches with a poison apple.  They lied!  THEY ALL LIED!  EMBRACE THE CYNICALNESS NOW!  I am that father who is going to tell her daughter that she cannot be an astronaut because statistically, it is impossible and that she needs to aim for something more realistic like being a pharmacist, or an optomestrist, or an engineer, or a lawyer, or a doctor, or an accountant.  (I just described every asian family in the world).

You want dreams?  What better dream, little girl, than the prospect of slicing the brain of someone who’s dying to try and save them!  Or how about crunching numbers at a desk all day.  OR BETTER YET.  You get to SHOOT air into people’s eyes while they are getting an eye check and watch them squirm in embarrassment because they are freaking out in anticipiation of that ungodly “burst” of air that will soon be annoyingly shot into their eye.  I HATE THAT SHOT OF AIR.  Why the hell do they need it!?  They are EVIL.  Optometrists are EVIL!!!

Seriously though, what if you tell your little daughter or son that Santa Claus IS real, but you are poor.  So here is this little boy or girl, trying with all their might to be the best little boy or girl they can possibly be (because their mothers and fathers told them that if they are good, then Santa will give them anything they want), only to find out that at Christmas…they get a hand knitted Christmas sweater that their mothers (out of good intent) crafted them.  “I didn’t ask for a damned sweater,” the little kid thinks.  While all the other kids got to be evil and pee down slides, I didn’t commit that evil act and I only get a damned sweater!?  WTF?  Meanwhile, the “bully of the school” who constantly peed down the slide and picks on you all day because you are short (SOB) with rich parents is walking around with his brand new limited edition x-ray goggles which have a 25% chance of giving kids cancer but who cares cause everything gives you cancer neways so might as well!   “I want x-ray goggles damnit.  Santa sucks!’  Talk about a traumatic experience!

Futhermore, what happens when, at the mall, the “fake” Santa Claus (who your child dearly believes is real), walks outside to “get a smoke”.  Imagine the look of shock on your child’s face, when she/he suddenly realizes that Santa is an EVIL MAN who smokes.  Or maybe she/he STARTS smoking because they see their role model chain smoking.  I swear, in two years we’re going to see ciagarettes ads with a big, fat, jolly old Santa Claus lighting up a cigarette.  This would be genius!  What better way to kill thousands of people, slyly, than to have a big picture of Santa Claus smoking everywhere!

All this with the reality that, to be honest, your kid will inevitably find out that you were LYING about Santa, and that infact he is NOT real, and when that day comes they will hate you for lying to them.  In one of my debate classes, the “prompt” for the week was to debate whether or not Santa Claus is real.  The class was consisted of a bunch of fifth to sixth graders.  Being concerned that some of these kids may actually believe in Santa, I asked coyly, “So, who here believes in Santa?”  Immediately, 5 hands shot straight up.  “Oh you foolish little idiots,” I thought.  JUST WAIT TILL THIS CLASS IS DONE AND WE’LL SEE IF YOU STILL BELIEVE!  I then proceeded to enlighten my young and ignorant little flock while many of them burst out into tears at the realization that they won’t be getting what they wanted for Christmas, and it does not matter how good they are because Santa isn’t alive.   Just kidding.  I wasn’t going to be the one to tell them he’s not real, so instead we decided to debate about whether dogs or cats are real.  Yes…what a wonderful debate topic.  It’s so one sided.  Cats suck.  (The fury of cat lovers are going to be riddled in my comments section).

I am evil.  Oh yes.  I am.

But…

Then I think that there is something beautiful about believing in stupid things.  That regardless of how absurd, how unrealistic, how calculatedly impossible it is…that believing there is some way, some chance, some small minute possibility that it is true is wonderful.  That sometimes you have to believe in impossible things to even enjoy this life that we’re living.  That sometimes reality isn’t enough…that if we were left to only reality, we would be miserable. 

And then I think about being a little kid.  And how you’ll never get to be a kid again.  How you’re going to have to grow up and face the hardships of life, and struggle through so many difficult situations and uncertainties.  How this is your only real chance to play in the sandbox without a single care, and run around butt naked and have no concern with how the public will perceive you (or be arrested by the cops), and imagine and play crazy games like x-men with all your friends where each of you has super powers and can effectively (with imaginary lasers) blow up walls and stuff, and dream about going to the moon, and…

I, for one, am going to tell my kids that Santa Claus is real.  And until they figure it out, I’m going to let them believe.

With Age…

I’m not sure why human beings “celebrate” birthdays after the age of 21.  Honestly, 21 is the culmination of our youth, and the glorious climatic ending (for some of us, a little bit too much of a glorious climatic ending) to the days you are actually considered young, vibrant, energetic, fun.  You’ve successfully crossed over to the beginning of the end, and the gradual and slow deterioration of all that once made you awesome at a younger age is inevitable. Suddenly, you are not as quick as you used to be. Suddenly, everyone who used to be little kids are now taller than you.  Suddenly…Eharmony…okay, we’ll stop there.  The twenty first birthday is usually the most amazing birthday of them all, too, and so it’s sort of a fitting end.  My twenty first birthday was sooo amazing that I don’t even remember it. Hahahaha.  Just kidding…why would I ever…not…remember…my twenty-first…birthday…

But seriously.  You know what’s really sad?  Little kids that I used to tutor when I was in high school…are now graduating from high school.  Little kids I used to Youth Pastor four years ago are now on the verge of graduating from college.  Wth? When did I transition from hyung to ah juh shee.  *on a side note, Korean illiteracy, which is rampant in the United States probably suggests you do not understand “Ah Juh Shee”.  Well to you I say, LEARN KOREAN BECAUSE WE ARE GOING TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD. Nevermind.  Who am I kidding.  We already own it.

I became that guy.  You know how when you were younger, during those thanksgiving dinners at your church, you would see all those college and college alums coming back from their respective schools, and inside you would secretly think to yourself that they are losers and so freaking old…yes. Now I am that guy.  When I go back home for thanksgiving, little kids look at me and wonder why I am so freaking old…then, they ask me difficult questions about life, trusting that I will have a mature and fitting response to give.  ”Aren’t you supposed to be twenty-four years old,” says Billy the thirteen year old.  ”Then why am I three inches taller than you?” I quickly look around to see if there are any parents around, and then upon the confirmation that there will be no one to witness what I am about to do, I poignantly stick up one of my “special fingers” to remind Billy just how much I love him. I love how with age, I am able to answer with so much more sagacity, says my middle finger.  

Seriously though, I motion for a new cultural phenomenon to sweep across the world.  I motion that from here on out, every birthday after the age of twenty-one should not be a celebration but a “mourning”.  We should mourn the one year of loss.  Loss of sight.  Loss of hearing.  Loss of rich and vibrant hair.  Loss of being able to run around endless hours and never grow tired. Loss of time (cause the older you are the busier you get).  Loss of mobility.  Loss of fast metabolism.  Loss of being able to eat anything you want and never gaining weight, says my stomach who has grown quite considerably since graduation.  Oh man, how the losses pile up.  Yes…let us mourn.

So it is, with this spirit, that I regretfully announce that there are now only two more days till the day that God so graciously provided the world with the likes of talented, amazing, sexy, awesome, and glorious men like Jamie Foxx, Dick Van Dyke, and…you know, Samuel Kim.  Because Samuel Kim speaks in the third person now.  And for those “skeptics” who wonder how could I compare myself with two famous and accomplished actors, LET ME REMIND YOU HOW AWESOME I AM.  I am going to be Twenty-five and ALREADY I HAVE ACCOMPLISHED THREE YEARS OF SINGLENESS! DAMN. Furthermore, I have SUCCESSFULLY moved back in with my mother.  Please.  Hold your applause.  And seriously, I don’t want to gloat, but IN THE PAST YEAR I HAVE GROWN .001 INCHES.  TAKE THAT.  BOO YA KA SHA.  I am awesome!

This is not some slick ploy to remind the world to send me a “facebook” wall-post which is a weak and minimalist attempt at assuring me that you actually DO care it is my birthday.  No, cause I am of the opinion that if you really DID care then you would remember that there is a thirty percent off sale at Bloomingdales, that I particularly like John Varvatos, Theory, and Hugo Boss, that blue is my favorite color and that I could really use some ties right now.  Nor is this some guileful way for me to coerce my blog readers to leave a comment stating “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” (WHICH MIGHT I ADD I AM SO SAD I ONLY GET 6 COMMENTS ON AVERAGE. Back in the days of Xanga I used to get 16 comments and 32 eprops!  Oh…those shiny, pretty eprops…maybe I should convert back to xanga).  No.  Don’t leave a “happy birthday” comment here.  Fill up my facebook so I look more POPULAR.  

I am not trying to trick my readers into anything.  There are no ulterior motives.  In fact, there are only three reasons why I write this blog post. First, I really, really, really want Rajan to remember it’s my birthday and send out one of those sweet love letters through the passionla list.  I am a big fan!

Second, I write this post to remind everyone that you need to grab a hold of someone in college (AND DEAR GOD DON’T EVER LET GO) while you are still young and have an abundant social network so that you don’t end up as an old bitter man like me.  (You know, really quick here, I want to add as a side note that when I talk about my bitterness, and my loneliness, and my anger, and all this junk about wanting a woman I am 99% doing it as a form of COMEDIC relief.  Sure, 1% of me feels the sting of depression and reality creeping up ever so slyly…but I GUARANTEE YOU THAT 99% of me is A OKAY.  Alright. Just making sure I established this.  That when I say these things, I’m only tapping into the literary device of HYPERBOLE. OH YEA.  Score one for UCLA English BA).  

And thirdly, I write this post to…yea.  Thank you all.

You know sometimes in real life when people tell me happy birthday, I have a really hard time showing them that I am really blessed and happy inside.  On the outside, I, for some reason, maintain this exterior shell of BADASSness.  But inside, I am really a sap, and it pleases me just to experience the blessing of having friends who actually care that it is my birthday.  Who actually care that I walk and live on this earth of 6 Billion people.

Thank you all for the surprise birthday parties, even though one of them wasn’t really even a surprise.  It’s amazing that you would even try.  Good effort, you get an A+ for it.  

Thank you…you guys are seriously the best.  And I really don’t require any big surprises…or any big birthday gifts. Hell, I don’t even need a birthday anything, I buy all the things that I want when I want them anyways. If anything, I want to win the lottery on my birthday so that I can bless all of YOU. Cause seriously…so many of you guys have been insanely amazing to me in my life.  I love you guys.  I really, really do.  So many of you have blessed me in numerous ways…

On this particular birthday, my twenty fifth, I want to just…say thanks. I am horrible with birthdays, btw. So I don’t ever expect anyone to remember mine, cause chances are I won’t remember yours. So if I’ve ever forgotten yours…MY BAD.  But take this as a sincere and genuine expression of my gratitude toward all of you.  You guys are amazing.  And I’m glad I know people like you.  Although knowing people like Jamie Foxx would probably be slightly cooler.  Just Kidding…99%.